Knit Sisters

It’s been a quiet week here Chez Knit Sister because Alex, designer of this website, soon to by husband-of-mine, and general all around great guy (shown here looking for all the world like junior faculty at Princeton),

is out in Berkeley for a few days doing, you know, Berkeley things: drinking only shade-grown coffee, practicing Bikram yoga, and haranguing passersby with unasked for and unwanted tirades about attachment parenting. Okay, he’s not. I lied. He would in fact never do such things. That’s why I love him. He’s actually working on a website for a Berkeley professor.

But either way, Shelley and I are making the best of things, mainly by air conditioning the bedroom down to the temperature of a meat locker and enjoying all the things a dog and a girl can enjoy in a super-chilled room: crossword puzzles, books, beef bones, DVDs, squeaky toys, and of course knitting. Progress on Rogue:

Finished those socks:

I knit a lot of socks, as you may have noticed, and this has a direct relationship to the fact that I live in the greater Boston area, home of a functional public transportation system of which I am an enthusiastic and frequent user. I spend a lot of time riding the T and the bus. A lot. And this is time that is well-spent knitting socks. I’m not the first, and I’m sure I won’t be the last, to note that socks make a good portable project. I always knit mine on two circular needles, thanks to the remarkable Cat Bordhi, so I’m never in danger of losing my DPNs on the bus. It also provides a ready-to-hand topic for conversation with other riders and a chance to recruit others to the knitting life.

But most importantly, knitting on the T keeps me occupied, which keeps me from reading public service ads about health issues. Boston is full of public health schools that are eager to spread the word to the people of Our Fair City about disease prevention, screening, and good health habits. All great. Except that some of us, while certainly not what you’d call hypochondriacs, heaven knows!, are susceptible to worst-case-scenario thinking when it comes to health. This is kind of a problem because, when you think about it, the body only has a limited number of ways of expressing its outrage. That means that most symptoms you experience can legitimately be either (a) a sign that you should eat smaller meals and maybe exercise more or (b) the first indication that by this time next year you will be dead.

So without knitting, here’s how it might go: I toddle down to Ye Olde Tea Party Square, head over to Felipé’s, consume a Super Burrito with cheese, black beans, guacamole, salsa, extra hot sauce, and a couple of jalapenos and wash it down with a 352 oz. Diet Coke. Then I hop on the T. I ride a couple of stops, communing with the mellifluous sound of metal-on-metal as the train rounds the curves, and then…I notice the public health ad above the head of the rider directly across from me: “Are you experiencing bloating? Lower abdominal pain? A feeling of fullness? Vague gastrointestinal complaints like nausea, gas, or indigestion? Do not ignore these symptoms. They can be signs of ovarian cancer, the deadliest of all gynecological cancers…”

My heart skips a beat. I am experiencing bloating, gas, and indigestion right now! I feel full. I feel vaguely nauseated. Could it be? Am I truly not long for this world? It says right there that I should not ignore these symptoms. I better get off this train right now and go to the doctor! Or maybe I need to think about “putting my affairs in order.” Oh Lord! Why? Why me?

Just as I am getting hold of myself and preparing to be brave and noble in the face of certain death, I remember. The Super Burrito. The 352 oz. Diet Coke.

As they say in medicine, when you hear hoofbeats in the hall, don’t go looking for a zebra.

Now I could try to work on myself and try to become less crazy and less apt to be convinced I am dying every time I read one of these public health placards and more Zen-like and all the rest of it.

Or I could just keep knitting socks:

P.S. Sarah, I would be happy to take that new skein of mohair/wool blend off your hands. It will be a burden, of course, but one I will gladly shoulder. It ain’t heavy, it’s my sister’s handspun…

This entry was posted on Tuesday, June 27th, 2006 at 11:22 am and is filed under Pathological knitting or "I can quit any time". You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. Both comments and pings are currently closed.